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Poem	I Through my bedroom window The coal carts jolted over the cobbles A slow heavy rhythm full, Light and fast returning empty. The coal office manager was a dwarf With sixty year old skin On a ten year old’s body and Hornrims on a wizened wizard’s face. The enormous shire horses neighed In warning if you went near, Their polished brasses gleaming, Their worn blinkers waxed; When they brought in lorries A two year old died On the first day. II Behind a creosoted fence lay The goodsyard with a single line Where LMS wagons shunted from Barnsley With wet coals gleaming All the way to Neville Hill. I never connected the clanking wagons With our weekly coalmen, their faces Black like miners, their backs bent Under hundred weight sacks. They dumped each load to scree Down the cellar grate, Its jet-dust choking The sunlight. III Behind the goodsyard lay the woodyard With slender knotted planks stacked round. One night it got alight, the heat Cracked my window but I never woke. When I read of the burning of Troy I remember Standish’s wood yard fire.
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